I’M ON SUCH a high from my day, I stop at the small market on the corner, intent on making Ansel dinner. I am all over this Paris thing, check me out. I’m learning to make do with the language barrier and find that the Parisians aren’t nearly as frustrated that I don’t speak French as I’d expected. They just seem to hate it when I try and then mangle it. I’ve been able to get by just fine with some pointing, smiling, innocent shrugging, and s’il vous plaît, and manage to buy some wine and prawns, fresh pasta, and vegetables.
But my nerves creep back in as I walk to the rickety elevator and as it noisily ascends to the seventh floor. I’m not sure if he’ll be home yet. I’m not sure what to expect at all. Will we pick up where we left off in San Diego? Or is now when we start . . . uh . . . dating? Or has the experience of our first few days put him off this little experiment altogether?
I lose myself in cooking, impressed with Ansel’s small kitchen. I’ve figured out his stereo and have some French dance music on as I happily bounce around the kitchen. The apartment smells of butter and garlic and parsley when he walks in, and my body grows tight and jittery when I hear him drop his keys in the little bowl on the entry table, put his helmet on the floor beneath.
“Hello?”
“In the kitchen,” I reply.
“You’re cooking?” he calls, rounding the corner into the main loft of the apartment. He looks good enough to devour. “I’m guessing you feel better.”
“You have no idea.”
“It smells wonderful.”
“It’s almost ready,” I say, begging my pulse to slow. Seeing him makes the thrill inside me bloom so wide my chest grows tight.
But then his face falls.
“What is it?” I follow the path of his eyes to the pan on the stove where I’ve tossed the prawns with the pasta and vegetables.
He winces. “It looks unbelievable. It’s just . . .” He swipes a palm across the back of his neck. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
I groan, covering my face. “Holy crap, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, clearly distressed. “How would you have known?”
The question hangs between us and we both look anywhere but at each other. The amount of things we know about each other seems dwarfed by the amount of things we don’t. I don’t even know how to go back to the introduction phase.
He takes a step closer, telling me, “It smells so good.”
“I wanted to thank you.” It takes a beat before I can get the rest out, and he looks away for the first time I can remember. “For taking care of me. For bringing me here. Please wait, I’ll go get something else.”
“We’ll go together,” he says, walking closer. He puts his hands on my hips but his arms are stiff and it feels forced.
“Okay.” I have no idea what to do with my own arms, and instead of doing what I think a normal woman would do in this situation—put them around his neck, pull him closer—I fold them awkwardly across my chest, tapping my collarbone with my finger.
I keep waiting for his eyes to flare with mischief or for him to tickle me, tease me, do something ridiculous and Ansel-like, but he seems beat and tense when he asks, “Did you have a good day?”
I start to answer but then he pulls one hand away, digging into his buzzing pocket and pulling out his phone, frowning at it. “Merde.”
That word I know. He’s been home for less than three minutes, and I already know what he’s going to say.
He looks back up at me, apology filling his eyes. “I have to go back into work.”
ANSEL IS GONE when I wake up, and the only evidence I have that he came back at some point is a note on the pillow beside mine telling me he was only home for a couple of hours and slept on the couch, not wanting to wake me. I swear I can feel something inside me splinter. I went to bed in one of his clean T-shirts and nothing else. New husbands don’t sleep on the couch. New husbands don’t worry about waking up their new, jobless, tourist wife in the middle of the night.
I don’t even remember if he kissed my forehead again before he left, but a very large part of me wants to text him and ask, because I’m starting to think the answer to that question will tell me if I should stay, or book the flight for my return trip home.
It’s easy to distract myself and fill my second day alone in Paris: I wander around the exhibits and gardens at the Musée Rodin, and then brave the interminable lines at the Eiffel Tower . . . but the wait is worth it. The view from the top is unreal. Paris is stunning at street level, and hundreds of stories up.
Back in the apartment Sunday night, Lola is my companion. She’s sitting on her couch at home in San Diego, recovering from whatever virus we both got, and replying to my texts with reassuring speed.
I tell her, I Think he regrets bringing me back with him.
That’s insane, she replies. It sounds like work sucks for him right now. Yes he married you, but he doesn’t know if it will last and he has to take care of the job, too.
Honestly, Lola, I feel pretty moochy, but I don’t want to leave yet! This city is ahhh-mazing. Should I stay at a hotel, do you think?
You’re being sensitive.
He slept on the COUCH.
Maybe he was sick?
I try to remember if I heard anything. He wasn’t.
Maybe he still thinks it’s shark week?
I feel my eyebrows inch up. I hadn’t considered this. Maybe Lola is right and Ansel thinks I’m still on my period? Maybe I really do need to be the one to initiate some sex-type things?
OK that’s a good theory.
Test it out, she replies.
Forget the T-shirt. Tonight, I’m going to sleep naked, no covers.
I WAKE, GLANCING at the clock. It’s nearly two thirty in the morning and I immediately sense that he’s not home yet. The lights are all out in the apartment, and beside me, the bed is empty and cold.
But then I hear a shuffle, a zipper, a tight moan coming from the other room.
I climb out of bed, pull on one of his T-shirts he’s left in the laundry bin and which smells so acutely of him that for a beat, I have to stop, close my eyes, find my balance.
When I step into the living room and look to the kitchen, I see him.
He’s bent over, one hand braced on the counter. His dress shirt is unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his neck and pants pushed down his hips as his other hand flies over his cock.
I’m mesmerized at the sight, the sheer eroticism of Ansel pleasuring himself in the dim light coming in from the window. His arm moves quickly, elbow bent, and through his dress shirt, I can see the tension of the muscles in his back, the way his hips begin to move into his hand. I step forward, wanting to see better, and my foot catches a squeaky board. The sound groans through the room, and he freezes, his head snapping to look over his shoulder.
When his eyes meet mine, they flash with mortification before slowly cooling to defeat. He lets his hand fall away and his head drops, chin to chest.
I approach him slowly, not sure if he wants me, or wants anything but me. Why else would he be out here doing this, when I was naked in his bed?
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he whispers. In the light coming in through the window, I can see the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth expanse of his neck. His pants are slung low on his hips, his shirt unbuttoned. I want to taste his skin, feel the soft line of hair that travels down his navel.
“You did, but I wish you had tried to wake me if you wanted . . .” I want to say “me” but again, I’m not at all sure that’s what he wanted. “If you needed . . . something.”
God, could I be less smooth?
“It’s so late, Cerise. I came in, started to undress. I saw you naked in my bed,” he says, gaze fixed on my lips. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
I nod. “I assumed you would see me naked on your bed.”
He exhales slowly through his nose. “I wasn’t sure—”
Before he finishes the sentence, I’m already lowering myself to my knees in the darkness, moving his hand away so I can lick him, bring his need back to life. My heart is beating so hard, and I’m so nervous I can see my hand shaking where I touch him, but fuck it. I tell myself I’m channeling Harlow, confident sex goddess.
I tell myself I have nothing to lose. “I went to bed naked on purpose.”
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to be with me like this,” he croaks.
I look up at him, flabbergasted. What happened to the delightfully pushy guy I met only a week ago? “I don’t feel obligated. You’re just busy . . .”
He smiles, gripping his base and painting a wet line across my lips with the bead of moisture that appears at his tip. “I think we’re both being too tentative, maybe.”
I lick him, playing a little, teasing. I’m greedy for the breathless noises he’s making, the rough eager grunts when I almost take him in and then pull away to kiss and play some more.
“I was thinking about you,” he admits in a whisper, watching me draw a long wet line from base to tip with my tongue. “I can barely think about anything else anymore.”
This admission uncoils something that had grown tight and tense in my gut, and I only realize how anxious I’d been about this when he says it. I feel like I’ve melted. It makes me eager to give him pleasure, sucking more of him, giving him the vibrations of my voice around him as I moan.
Seeing him like this—impatient, relieved at my touch—makes it easier for me to keep playing, keep being this brave, brazen seductress. Pulling back, I ask, “In your mind, what were we doing?”
“This,” he says, tilting his head as he slides a hand into my hair, anchoring me. I prepare myself to feel the full invasion of him into my mouth only a second before he pushes in deep. “Fucking these lips.”
His head falls back and he closes his eyes, hips rocking in front of my face. “C’est tellement bon, j’en rêve depuis des jours . . .” With apparent effort, he straightens, leaning over a little, growing rougher. “Swallow,” he whispers. “I want to feel you swallowing.” He pauses so I can do what he’s asked and he moans hoarsely as I pull him deeper into my throat with the movement.
“Will you swallow when I come? Will you make a little hungry sound when you feel it?” he asks, watching me intently now.
I nod around him. For him, I will. I want anything he’ll give me; I want to give him anything just the same. He’s the only anchor I have to this place, and even if this marriage is only pretend, I want that feeling back, when it was free and easy between us that night in San Diego, and the one before that, which I only remember in tiny fragments, flashes of skin and sounds and pleasure.
For several minutes he moves, treating me to his quiet growling sounds and whispers that I’m beautiful, giving me every inch along my tongue before pulling almost all the way out and jerking his length with his fist, the crown of his cock tapping against my lips and tongue.
It’s like this that he comes, messily, spilling in my mouth, on my chin. It’s intentional, it has to be, and I know I’m right when I look up and see his eyes darken at the sight of his orgasm on my skin, my tongue swiping out, instinctively. He steps away, running his thumb over my lower lip before bending to help me up. With a damp towel, he gently wipes me clean and then steps back, preparing to lower himself to his knees, but he weaves slightly and when the streetlight outside catches his profile, I can tell he’s about to fall over in exhaustion. He’s barely slept in days.
“Let me make you feel good now,” he says, instead leading me toward the bedroom.
I stop him with my hand on his elbow. “Wait.”
“What?” he asks, and my thoughts trip on the rough edge in his voice, the simmering frustration I’ve never before heard from him.
“Ansel, it’s nearly three in morning. When was the last time you slept?”
His expression is unreadable in the shadow, but it isn’t so dark that I can’t see how his shoulders seem too heavy for his frame, how tired he looks “You don’t want me to touch you, too? I come on your lips and you’re ready for sleep?”
I shake my head and don’t resist when he reaches for me, slides his hand under his shirt, up my thigh. He spreads me with his fingers and groans. I’m drenched and now he knows it, too. With a quiet hiss he begins to move his hand, bending to suck on my neck.
“Let me taste this,” he growls, his breath warm on my skin, fingers slipping easily over my clit before pushing down and into me. “It’s been a week, Mia. I want my face covered in you.”
I’m shaking in his arms with how much I want him. His fingertips feel like heaven, his breath is hot on my neck, kisses sucking and urgent all along my neck. What’s another fifteen minutes of lost sleep? “Okay,” I whisper.
I wait until he’s finished brushing his teeth and slides into bed wearing only his boxers before I slip into the bathroom after him. “Be right there.”
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and tell my reflection to stop overthinking everything. If the man wants sex, give him sex. I want sex. Let’s have sex! I quietly pad out into the darkness. My stomach is warm, the space between my legs slick and ready and this is it, I think. This is when the fun starts, when I can enjoy him and this city and this tiny slice of life where I don’t have anyone else I need to worry about but me, and him.
The moon lights a path from the small bathroom to the foot of the bed, and I flip off the bathroom light, pulling the light covers back so I can climb into bed beside him. He’s warm, and his soap and aftershave immediately trigger the hunger I’ve missed for days now, that desperate need for the urgent grip of his hands, the feel of him kissing me and moving over me. But even when I slide my hand up his stomach and over his chest, he remains still, limbs heavy beside me.
Nothing comes out when I open my mouth the first time, but the second time I manage to whisper, “Do you want to have sex?” I wince at the stark words, blown free of nuance or seduction.
He doesn’t answer and I shift closer, heart hammering as I curl around his hard, warm body. He’s fast asleep, breaths solid and steady.
HE’S UP BEFORE me again, this time in a charcoal suit, a black shirt. He looks ready for a photo shoot: black and white stills of him caught unaware on the street corner, sharp jaw carving a shadow through the sky behind him. He’s bent over me, about to deliver a chaste kiss to my lips, when my eyes open.
He steers himself from my mouth to my temple, and my stomach sinks when I realize it’s Monday, and again, he’ll be working all day.
“Sorry about last night,” he says quietly into my ear. When he pulls back, his gaze flickers away from mine and he focuses instead on my lips.
I had dreams, though—sexy dreams—and am not ready for him to leave yet. I can still imagine the feel of his hands and lips, his voice grown hoarse after hours over and behind and beneath me. Sleep still clouds my thoughts, makes me brave enough to act. Without thinking, I pull at his arm and bring it beneath the covers with me.
“I had dreams about you,” I rasp, smiling sleepily up
at him.
“Mia . . .”
He’s unsure what I’m doing at first and I watch when understanding dawns as I drag his hand down my ribs, over my navel. His lips part, eyes grow heavy. Ansel meets my hips halfway with his hand, sliding his fingers between my legs and cupping me.
“Mia,” he groans with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s part longing and part something that looks more like anxiety. At the border, awareness trickles in.
Oh shit.
His suit jacket is folded over his other forearm, laptop bag still slung over his shoulder. He was rushing out the door.
“Oh.” The flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. Pushing his hand away from my body, I begin, “I didn’t—”
“Don’t stop,” he says, jaw clenching.
“But you’re leavi—”
“Mia, please,” he says, his voice so low and soft it drips over me like warm honey. “I want this.”
His arm shakes, eyes roll closed, and I let mine do the same before I fully wake up, before I lose my nerve. What had I thought in Vegas? That I wanted a different life. That I wanted to be brave. I wasn’t brave then, but I pretended to be.
With my eyes closed, I can pretend again. I’m the sexbomb who doesn’t care about his job. I’m the insatiable wife. I’m the only thing he wants.
I’m drenched and swollen and the noise he makes when he slides his fingers over me is unreal: a deep, rumbling groan. I could come with barely an exhale across my skin I’m so keyed up, and when he seems to want to explore me, to tease, I rise into his fingers, seeking. He gives me two, pushed straight into me, and I grip his forearm, rocking up, fucking his hand. I can’t stop long enough to care how desperate I seem.
Heat crawls up my skin and I pretend it’s the heat of the spotlight.
“Oh, let me see,” he whispers. “Let go.”
“Aah,” I gasp. My orgasm takes shape around the edges, the sensation crystallizes and then builds, crawling up from where his thumb now circles frantically against my skin until my orgasm is hammering through me. Clutching his arm in both hands, I cry out, rippling around his fingers. My legs and arms and spine feel fluid, filled with liquid heat, molten as relief floods my bloodstream.
I open my eyes. Ansel holds still, and then slowly pulls his fingers from me, slipping his hand back out from under the covers. He watches me as consciousness eventually pushes sleep completely aside. With his other hand, he hitches his bag higher on his shoulder. The room seems to tick in the quiet, and even though I try to grasp on to my feigned confidence, I can feel my chest, my neck, my face grow warm with heat.
“Sorry, I—”
He silences me with his wet fingers pressed to my mouth. “Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t take it back.”
He traps his fingers with his lips pressed to mine, and then slips his tongue across his fingers, across my mouth, tasting me and releasing a sweet, relieved exhale. When he pulls back enough for me to focus on his eyes, they’re full of determination. “I’m coming home early tonight.”
